This Starts Here
by rikkucheerio
Summary: AU after the finale of S5.  Spoilers!  Jenny survives the shooting in the diner, but just barely.
1. Chapter 1

Most of the hospital floor is asleep and the quiet that comes with it has filled the hallways. It's a loud quiet and it makes Jen feel like her head is wrapped in thick cotton. It drowns out the soft sounds from the wall-mounted TV as a news reporter talks about the flames behind her. She doesn't need to hear what's being said to know what's going on. The crawl at the bottom of the screen tells her everything. Her townhouse in Georgetown is burning.

Maybe it's just the morphine; maybe it's just the exhaustion, but even as she watches what's left of her life go up in orange flames and black smoke, she can't cry. Or maybe it's just that even now, sitting here alone in the dim light in a California hospital, she can't let herself. She refuses to feel sorry for herself. She has to put up a brave face and soldier on like always, but for who? It used to be for professional reasons. Now it's because she doesn't know how to do anything else.

She's not feeling much of anything right now. The doctors fixed her shoulder, put the bones in her arm back together, cracked her chest. Apparently her funeral is tomorrow. Jen remembers coming in on a funeral note. Now she's left on one as well.

The CNN reporter continues to talk, but Jen still isn't hearing the words. She's never felt more alone in her life. Her eyes flick to the doorway, but no one is there. She's not sure if she's expecting or wishing. But she knows she wants him. She wants to see he's okay. She wants him to see that she's okay. Jenny knows the fire is his doing and she knows why he did it. They're covering up her mistake. As they should. It died with her. Officially.

When she gets released a week later, he's there with a rental car. She doesn't ask how he knew; she doesn't want to know. He's just there and he has coffee. She hates that she needs his help getting the seatbelt around, but with one arm strapped down, she's limited. He knows and does it without saying anything. Dropping into the driver's seat beside her, he looks over at her. A moment passes where he just seems to be taking her in. She raises her eyebrows and one corner of her mouth curls up in a slight smirk, "What, Jethro?"

He turns back to the road and starts the car forward. "You shoulda ducked, Jen," he answers with a big smile.

They drive in silence out of the city and she's fallen asleep by the time they cross the California border. With California behind them and miles of Nevada desert in front of them, he pulls the car to a screaming stop on the empty stretch of road. The sudden deceleration wakes Jen and she looks over at him. So far, she's not worried. He's know for abrupt changes in direction.

"What is it?" she asks.

He doesn't answer, just opens the car door and walks around the front. She follows him, watching as he opens her door next. He still doesn't answer. Now she's starting to wonder what's going through his mind. He pops her seatbelt.

"Are you ever going to say anything?" she asks, getting out of the car gingerly.

"What the hell were you thinking, Jen? You were nearly killed." Should have been killed.

Apparently he's been brooding while she was sleeping. She lifts her chin slightly and fixes him with a look that says she's not going to take his shit. She's almost surprised how easily the feeling of being in control comes back to her, even as damaged as she is.

"You should have called me. I don't care if you blew off DiNozzo and Ziva. You know better." He doesn't have to tell her he knows she'd decided the ending from the start. She can see it in his eyes. And when he pulls her into a clinging hug, she can feel it in him even before he says, "I'm not willing to lose you, too."

She stands there stiffly, wrapped up in his arms. And as she thinks about the conversation in the diner about regrets and choices, she realizes this is the time. With her old life gone and an uncertain future in front of her, she has everything to lose and everything to gain. Her posture softens and her unhindered arm wraps around his neck. Now she allows herself to cry. She lets go of everything she was holding onto and cries into the shoulder of this man she's still very much in love with. Maybe she is breakable and maybe she is human.


	2. Chapter 2

[A/N: This is the same scene from two different perspectives.]

She looks uncomfortable as she lays somewhere between her back and her side, trying to stay asleep. He knows she doesn't sleep much at night. Late, when the pain medications wear down and wear off, he hears her get up. But he never follows. He gives her all the space she needs. But now, on a Saturday afternoon, he's home and she's there and he can't help it when he stops to watch her. She's been living in his button down shirts and sweatpants for a week now. The first time she did it, he's pretty sure he gawked at her. The second time, he laughed. And by the third, he didn't say a word. But by then, he didn't have to.

His eyes scan over the coffee table and the orange prescription bottles side by side with a half-full water glass. Leaning over her, he picks up the bottle of Riluzole. Not one he's familiar with. The other two are an antibiotic and a painkiller-SOP after heart surgery.

"You smell like sawdust, Jethro," she mumbles without opening her eyes.

"And you tricked me, Jen," he answers with a small smile. Caught him, actually. He sets the pill bottle back where it was and sits in the space between the couch armrest and her head. They've gravitated towards each other like the Earth towards the center of the galaxy as he adjusts to her not being his boss anymore and she adjusts to everything.

"Just don't get it in my hair."

Too late.

"You okay?" he asks, watching her. She doesn't move from where she's laying and he wonders if she's as uncomfortable as she looks. Probably is. But he knows she won't say so.

"I'm fine," she answers as she opens her eyes. He can see the realization cross her face as she remembers she left her pills on the table.

"You're not. Tell me what's going on." He pauses a moment, waiting for her to answer, "Or I'll get Ducky to tell me. Your choice, Jenny." She continues to lay there silently with her eyes closed and her knees curled up and her bare feet dangling off the end of the couch. It's not even half as graceful and commanding as she used to be. For the first time in the entire time he's known her, he thinks she looks small and fragile. And he doesn't like it. His fingers comb through the strands of her red hair. "What are you waiting for?"

Finally she answers him. "Mike Franks asked the same thing. In the diner."

"And?"

"I didn't have an answer for him." She falls quiet again for a moment and he just waits patiently, running his fingers through her hair. "I should have died in the diner. I made the decision and I waited for it. It was on my terms."

"Why?" he prompts.

She keeps her eyes fixed on a point somewhere in front of her. "Because I'm dying anyway. Jethro, I have ALS."

"How long?"

"Three years, maybe five," she answers softly, "And by then, I won't be able to do anything myself." She looks up at him and he looks back at her. He knows what she doesn't have to say: a quick death in the California desert would have been more merciful. A thick silence falls between them, but neither one looks away. Finally, she breaks it, "Franks figured it out and still said I have time to make it right between you and I."

He holds onto the silence a bit longer, watching her in his oversized shirt and sweats with NIS down the leg, a neutral expression on his face and pure affection in his eyes. "You do," is all he says.

She hears him come up from the basement and close the door softly. She's been trying to nap for the last however long, but she just can't seem to find a comfortable position. Not that his couch is uncomfortable. Between having an arm that's out of commission and that whole 'having her chest wired closed' thing, she's definitely had better days. She's lucky to be alive, but that depends on the definition of lucky. Though it's given her a fairly good excuse to steal his clothes. Aside from the fact that all of hers went up in flames. She's been living in his button down shirts because they're easy to get on. Buttons can be done with one hand. And they smell like him. She feels comfortable and safe.

Without needing to open her eyes, she knows he's in the room with her. She heard him walk in and she heard the lack of sounds after that. She knows he's watching her. Then she feels him lean over her, but to do what she's not sure. She doesn't care. For a brief moment, she likes having him that close. She can smell the boat on him and the scents of his basement.

"You smell like sawdust, Jethro." Her words are lazy and sleepy as they tumble off her tongue.

She feels him lean over her again, "And you tricked me, Jen." She smiles slightly. He knew she wasn't really sleeping. He squeezes into the space by her head, his thigh pressed against her hair and they couldn't get any closer if they tried.

"Just don't get it in my hair," she nuzzles the fabric of the couch and his leg in the process. She keeps her eyes closed, just focusing on the feeling of him so close to her. Sawdust and beer and him. And she doesn't feel quite so uncomfortable anymore.

"You okay?"

And there it is, the question he asks at least once a day every day since she started taking up space in his house. All things considered, she's fine. "I'm fine," she answers as she opens her eyes. And now she knows what he was leaning over her for. She left her pills on the coffee table. Usually she's more careful than that, but she's so out of sorts, it never even occurred to her.

"You're not. Tell me what's going on." She doesn't answer. She has no intention of answering. Even now, she doesn't want him to know. Stupid. It's right in front of him and she has no way out. He'll call her on the lie. "Or I'll get Ducky to tell me. Your choice, Jenny." Fuck choices. The last nine years were laid out because of her choices. Choices she wants to take back. She can feel his fingers in her hair now and she closes her eyes again. "What are you waiting for?"

And she still doesn't know. "Mike Franks asked the same thing. In the diner."

"And?"

And what? What does he want her to say? "I didn't have an answer for him," she responds truthfully. She lapses into silence and his fingers don't stop. What is she waiting for? Nothing. "I should have died in the diner. I made the decision and I waited for it. It was on my terms." It's all about decisions and choices and how she desperately wants to change them.

"Why?"

She opens her eyes and looks into his living room, getting lost in her thoughts. "Because I'm dying anyway. Jethro, I have ALS."

Now he knows. But he doesn't seem surprised. He already knew in part. But that doesn't make it feel any better. "How long?"

"Three years, maybe five." Again with that being lucky thing. An extra two years of being betrayed by her own body doesn't sound like luck to her. "And by then, I won't be able to do anything for myself." She looks up at him and he looks back. He'd take care of her, but she doesn't want him to. Neither one of them should have to go through that. And his last memories of her shouldn't be those. The silence gets heavy between them until finally, she speaks up again, "Franks figured it out and still said I have time to make it right between you and I."

And that's the truth of the matter. He's still quiet, watching her. Three years of him looking at her the way he is now and she might be able to make it.

"You do."


	3. Chapter 3

_Finding it hard to fall asleep_

_She won't let anyone help her_

_The look on her face, a waste of time_

_She won't let go, gonna roll the dice_

_Losing her grace, starts to cry_

_I feel her pain when I look in her_

The sun is low in the sky, barely over the trees, casting long shadows through the bedroom. Jen's been lying awake for an hour give or take. She can't see the clock and didn't bother to look. She knows it's early; does the exact time actually matter anymore? She knows it's Monday. That much still matters. Her circadian rhythms are so messed up, her body doesn't know if it's coming or going. A small part of her isn't sure she even really cares. She's been having trouble finding meaning in her life this past week. All of a sudden, she's nobody. A nobody for an agonizing three years. It's been more than a week if she's honest with herself, but at least she used to have plenty of distraction. And she had thought she'd found a solution. So much for that.

With a sigh, Jen rolls her head to the side and looks at him from under the bangs that had fallen in her eyes. Even if she didn't have her health, she still had him. Sort of. Blindingly obvious or not, they still hadn't admitted anything to each other. Briefly she wonders how long it'll be before his alarm goes off, but decides she'll just get up anyway. Her messed up sleep patterns have messed his up by proxy. Every time she wakes up during the night, she knows he wakes up just on instinct. But she wouldn't expect any less. She's run out of things to think about and the silence is starting to get to her. She swings her feet to the floor and stands slowly. Time to pretend she actually gives a shit.

Jen grabs her shirt-his shirt-from the day before and wanders into the bathroom to change. Funny how she still felt the need for privacy and modesty. They can share a bed but baring all for him was too much? Why? The long t-shirt she's been sleeping in gets peeled off with great difficulty and then hung on the back of the bathroom door next to the other shirt. She pulls on the sweatpants without trouble, but stops when she catches sight of herself in the mirror. She looks thinner, the waistband hanging on her hips precariously. Her cheekbones seem more pronounced and angular in ways she doesn't remember them ever being. She looks like hell. She feels like hell.

As she stands there, green eyes stare back. She almost doesn't recognize them as being her own. Her gaze travels down to the swath of white gauze between her breasts. For some reason, she feels like she needs to ready herself to peel the bandage off every morning. She's not used to feeling like the Bride of Frankenstein. She goes to pull the tape off and has trouble grabbing at one corner, but eventually she gets it going. She's too distracted to notice her fingers aren't cooperating as well as they should. The tape and gauze comes away easily and she's left with the ugly stitches and the angry incision. She peels the bandage off the matching wound from the chest tube and finally off the incision on her shoulder. The evidence of the bullets themselves is barely noticeable.

She's a mess. Jenny Shepard is never a mess.

This isn't who she is. Or maybe it is. She's not even sure who she is anymore. She digs her teeth into her lip and screws her eyes closed. It worked for Abby sometimes. After a moment, Jen opens her eyes again and nothing has changed.

She doesn't want this.

And as soon as she realizes exactly what she's thinking, she hurries up as best she can-clean dressings on the incisions, button down shirt pulled on-and gets out of the bathroom as quick as she can. Because he must be awake by now and he'll worry if she takes too long, right?

Yeah. He'll worry.

Jen comes out of the bathroom, studying the buttons down her front. "Stop for directions?" he asks, standing across the room from her. Her head snaps up and she glares at him as she pulls the shirt closed more. No bra; can't clasp it. And hell if she'd let him do that.

"No," she answers abruptly, not inviting more conversation. She goes back to fighting with the buttons on the shirt. He just raises his eyebrows before walking around her and closing the bathroom door behind him.

And now she's having such trouble with the buttons on her shirt. She just. Can't get her fingers to do what she wants them to do. One-handed buttons are mildly hard to start with, but she could do it. And now she just can't. She feels useless and helpless but dammit if she won't keep at it. He comes out of the bathroom a few minutes later and walks around her again.

"You still fighting with my shirt, Jen?" he asks as he moves around the bedroom, readying for his day.

She shoots him another glare, but while she wasn't looking, she loses her hold on the button again. "Dammit," she spits, starting over yet again. She's getting frustrated that she can't manage a simple task that she had done hundreds of times before and she's really just wanting to throw the shirt at the floor.

Her swear catches his attention and he stops with his own buttons. He stands close to her, but doesn't reach out to help her.

"The button holes…they're just sewn tight," she says, keeping her head down and her eyes locked on the offending button, "I don't need your help. I can get it, Jethro." Except she does and she can't. When it slips again, she just drops her hand to her side and stands there. And in a heartbeat, she's losing it and he's gathering her in his arms. She just stands there, unmoving, crying deeply.


	4. Chapter 4

_[A/N: Two short drabbles, like an intermission between real chapters. And thank you to those who have reviewed and fav'd!]_

I'm watching a train wreck. My hands aren't strong enough to stop it; my voice is too soft.

Nothing helps.

She's barreling fiercely down that track, trying to be unafraid and trying to be strong and trying to be who she used to be.

But she won't cut herself any slack. Her standards are high and her expectations are high.

Too high.

I tell her to slow down. She won't.  
>I tell her to stop. She refuses.<br>I tell her to let me help. She pushes me away.

At night, she crashes. She's depressed. And she still won't say anything.

_[words 100_  
><em>Gibbs POV]<em>

_The bond that links your true family is not one of blood, but of respect and joy in each other's life. Rarely do members of one family grow up under the same roof._

"I wouldn't have asked unless-" Her eyes are closed, breaths are short.

"I know, Jen," soft words. Her forehead brushes against your cheek. She's burning up. It feels like the flu, she said. Only it isn't.

"Jethro, one of these days, someone unsavory is going to take advantage of your generous door-locking policy." Without missing a beat, "Though I suppose for someone like you, that wouldn't be a problem." The sight on the couch stops him short, "Dear God."

"Hey Duck. Found this in the desert."

"Hi, Ducky," she opens her eyes and doesn't move from your shoulder and you can hear her smile.

_[words 104_  
><em>Gibbs 2nd person POV]<em>


	5. Chapter 5

[A/N: Again, thank you for the reviews. Hopefully this clears up that second drabble. Also, hear Jen's voice in my head, not Ducky's, so I apologize if he seems as ooc as he felt.]

_Les liens de la mort m'avaient environné, Et les angoisses du sépulcre m'avaient saisi; J'étais en proie à la détresse et à la douleur._

_The cords of death compassed me, And the anguish of the grave before me, I was experiencing the distress and pain._

Following Ducky into the bedroom, Jen shuts the door with her hip. It isn't really about secrecy anymore. Or maybe it is because modesty went out the window days ago. Gibbs has seen almost every inch of her now. They could have done this out in the living room and she would have been perfectly comfortable. But it isn't about body image. She's worried about what might come tumbling out of her mouth. There are things she can say to Ducky that she still can't bring herself to even think about telling Gibbs. The gap between the two was closing, but it was still there enough for her to feel like she needed to close the door. She tries telling herself it's a holdover from having an office with a locking door, but it's a cold comfort at best. When she turns back to Ducky, he still has some of that "just seen a ghost" look on his face.

"How long have you..." he starts, but he lets the words trail off.

Jen shrugs her good shoulder, "I honestly don't know, Ducky. I don't know what day it is. A couple weeks, I guess." She starts to adjust the blanket around her shoulders, but the ache in her fingers and elbow tell her she might as well just drop the thing and she sits on the edge of the bed near him.

To his credit, Ducky seems to pick up on her nonverbal cues just like always and sets his bag beside her. "I don't suppose I need to tell you how you look, my dear," he says as he pulls out the things he'll need to draw blood and a stethoscope.

"I'm a mess," she snaps.

"That's not what I meant," he says, giving her a comforting look, "What I meant was considering all that you've been through recently, you still manage to look lovely." He's trying, at least.

But she reacts like he just burned her, flicking her eyes to his with a warning glare. "That's crap and you know it, Ducky." And she would love to rip all the buttons off her shirt for effect, but she can't even do that. Partially just because the shirt is pissing her off in exponentially increasing amounts each day. She won't ever get used to needing someone else to help her get dressed. But her anger is a quick flash, then it's gone, and she looks down at her hand in her lap, adding, "You'll have to undo the buttons."

"It's progressed, then," he answers, knowing exactly what she's talking about. She just nods and her silence unsettles him. Ducky tries to meet her eyes, but she refuses. "Forgive me," he says as he reaches for the buttons.

She closes her eyes and sits silently, perfectly still. Just like the first time with Gibbs, she feels incredibly violated. She wants to do it herself, under her control, but no amount of trying will make her fingers able to grab the little plastic disks with any more success. Willpower can't replace lost function. She just can't do it. As she sits there, she feels the chill air hit her skin. Thankfully, Ducky doesn't move her shirt any more than he needs to see the entirety of the incision down her sternum. Satisfied it looks okay, he lets her move her arm to hold her shirt in place while he checks out the other, more covered incisions on her side and shoulder.

"Well," he starts, straightening up, "I don't see any signs of infection. But there are other syndromes which could be causing your symptoms." She just listens and watches as he puts the stethoscope to her chest. She's still short of breath. Ducky makes a face and says, "Take deep breaths for me, please, Jenny." She obeys and as she inhales, she winces. That damn sharp pain in her chest. And then comes the coughing. Ducky's heard all he needs to hear and puts the stethoscope away. "I'm afraid you need some x-rays. Then I'll be able to definitively give you an answer as to what's belaboring your ability to heal."

"No," is all she says, looking at him sternly.

"There are at least half a dozen things it could be and without a chest x-ray and without having done the bloodwork to rule out other infections, I can't properly narrow it down. I really urge you to change your mind, Direc-" and he cuts himself off sharply.

She pretends not to notice his slip and continues to glare, "Make an educated guess, Ducky."

"Postpericardiotomy syndrome. It's an immune phenomenon that occurs days to months after surgical incision of the pericardium but can also be caused after a trauma, a puncture of...sorry," her look says she's not in the mood to listen to him ramble, so he adjusts his train of thoughts, "Treat with steroids and rest. You'll be fine." There's a look of caution in his eyes as he answers.

She nods and doesn't say anything further. It's more of that silence that deeply troubles him and he wonders what's going through her mind. But then after a moment, she breaks the silence and looks up at him. "Is it fatal?" she asks softly and Ducky could almost swear she sounds hopeful. This is what she worried about Gibbs hearing.

He doesn't answer right away and moves his bag from the bed to the floor to sit beside her. "Not usually," he finally answers.

She just nods again. Then, "I find myself wondering what the point of all this is." He, of all people, should know how much of a waste the last couple of weeks have been. A waste of medical care and a waste of time. It should have ended in the diner.

Ducky sighs and puts a hand on her knee, "Perhaps it would have been more humane. But that's all it would have been." He points a finger at her nose, just shy of actually touching her, "Because you and I both know there is no way he'll let go."

"That's exactly my point!" she says sharply. She doesn't even feel well enough to yell at him, but she does anyway. The shortness of breath drives her stand and she continues, "I don't want this." Even if she and Gibbs went over this already, her brain hasn't had time to process. Everything makes her angry and she can't help how she feels. She spent far too long doing what's best for her. This is what's best for him.

The look on her face could kill lesser men. Ducky just keeps his mouth closed and slips from the room.

On his way, he finds Gibbs in the basement, sanding the hull of an as-yet-to-be named boat. Gibbs looks up as Ducky comes down the stairs, but doesn't say anything, instead waiting for the older man to say whatever there is to be said. "She'll be fine, Jethro, however, I'm still not sure if the wiser course of action would be to avoid for a while or to go to her."

Of course, Gibbs rarely chooses the safer option. Especially when it comes to Jen. "Thanks, Duck."


	6. Chapter 6

_[A/N: Thank you to those of you who are reviewing and fav'ing. Writers live for feedback. This is kind of a cliffhanger chapter and even I'm not sure what's next. I'm also not too happy with this chapter; it feels a bit rushed.]_

Gibbs is gone for the day. Unlike some people, he still has a job. Which leaves Jenny home alone. Again. Except she has no intention of staying home. She waits until Gibbs is good and gone before she calls a cab. She's sitting on the front steps by the time it pulls up out front. Her stomach is in her throat and she's pretty sure her hands are shaking. This is such a bad idea. Gibbs would kill her if he knew. Jen slides into the backseat and gives the driver her old address.

He turns back to her, "You know that place burned down a couple weeks ago, right?" His confusion is all over his face.

"I know," she answers. She really just wants him to leave her alone.

"Okay. Just checkin'," he answers and starts the car down the street.

Half-way there and she feels like telling the driver to turn around. There's just no way she can do this. But it won't be real until she does. She's short of breath, she's lightheaded, and her heart is racing-she's sure it's going to rip itself free. It's impossible for her to tell if this is nerves or if it's something she should be worried about. Or if it's some combination of both. But she keeps her mouth closed and keeps her eyes closed. Somehow sitting in the dark makes things better. Except it does little to slow her heart.

The car stops and she's certain her heart skips a beat.

"Apparently the woman who owned the placed died in the fire," the cab driver says. Jen has yet to open her eyes. "City's gonna tear it down next week."

Tear it down.

She feels like she's going to throw up in the back of his car. She opens her eyes and without a word, shoves a wad of cash she borrowed from Gibbs at him. "Be back here in half an hour," is all she manages to say. She opens the car door and gets out as fast as she's able to, but as she stands, she's wondering if her legs will fall out from under her. Lightly, she closes the door and watches the cab drive off, leaving her on the sidewalk across the street. Jen takes a shaky breath and looks up at the building in front of her.

The whole block looks the same as it did before she went to California. Except there isn't much left of her townhouse. The first floor is all boarded up and the windows on the second floor are long gone. She can see the blue sky overhead through them. The roof was the first to fall. The bricks all around the windows are charred black and Jen remembers watching the flames shoot upward, licking at the bricks. As she stands in front of the building, her imagination overlays the CNN footage, making it almost like she was there that night.

Her life really is over.

Without even really knowing why, she crosses the street. She climbs the front steps slowly. All she can smell is the burnt wood from inside and it looks like teenagers already broke in, probably just to say they were in a building where someone died. Before she realizes it, her feet are moving again and she's ducking under the plywood that's barely attached to the front of the building. At this point, she's moving without thinking. Autopilot. And she's really hoping to not get arrested for trespassing. She's not nearly healthy enough to spend a night in jail. Not that she's healthy enough to roam around in a fire-gutted building. She makes a mental note to shower before Gibbs gets back, so she can wash the smoke from her hair. But now that she's gone down this path, she has very little hope of hiding her adventure from him.

She steps around a fallen floorboard, heading towards the study at the back of the townhouse. The whole room is black and she barely even recognizes it for what it used to be. She bites hard on her lower lip as she stands in what used to be a doorway. She bites harder as she feels the tears well up in her eyes and she turns away, hoping just putting it out of sight will keep her from crying. Her balance is shaky enough; she doesn't need to start crying here.

Her shoes-a pair of slip-on sneakers reminiscent of a pair she had in college-crunch on broken glass and burned wood as she walks back towards the door. She can remember exactly where all the furniture used to be. Left in their places are burned out husks of bookcases and piles of table legs. Her eyes scan the floor, watching where she steps, and then they catch on the only sliver of color left in the black foyer. She toes through the debris and uncovers a photo of her father. The frame is half gone, the glass is broken and the photo itself is partially burned. What didn't get damaged by fire got wrinkled by water. Slowly, she picks it up and it's all she needed to start crying. She swipes at her tears with the back of her hand, rubbing soot across her cheek as she does.

She folds the photo into quarters with a shaky hand and tucks it into the shirt pocket. Jen can handle anything. Anything except this. She's too exhausted and too emotionally battered. She feels so sick and she can't get out of the building fast enough. She makes a mad dash for the door with the dangling plywood and down the stone steps and gets as far as the sidewalk before she doubles over, dry heaving. A few minutes later, the cab pulls up. Funny how thirty minutes can seem like a lifetime. Briefly Jen debates having the cabbie take her to NCIS so she can find Gibbs, but that would be too much for everyone involved. So instead, she has him just take her home. A home that isn't really her home and probably never will be.

If she's going to give surviving a chance, she can't stay in Washington. There's too much that isn't here anymore.


	7. Chapter 7

_[A/N: Thank you guys for all the reviews! I really do love them. Here's another little drabble/intermission piece. I think it's a nice break from all the angst.]_

Her body fits perfectly against his, even with her left arm still immobilized. He just slips his arm into the perfect spot around her middle, between her arm and the button on her jeans. Gone are his NIS pants, traded in for something slightly more flattering. And he definitely approves. Not that he disliked her in his pants to start with.

His hand expertly guides hers along the hull of the boat, sanding with the grain and never against it. She can feel him breathing against her back and she leans into him. Happily, most of her bruises have healed. Just the deepest ones remain. Momentarily she closes her eyes. All she can smell is the sawdust and the bourbon on his breath. All she can feel is his hand on hers and the resistance in the wood.

She opens her eyes and looks over her shoulder at him, then she breaks the silence. Her words are somber but still teasing. Bittersweet. "Don't you dare name a boat after me when I'm gone."

"We'll see," he murmurs with a kiss to her throat. And they both know he will. But no one will notice he doesn't call it a 'she'.


	8. Chapter 8

[A/N: Thank you for following along with this! I love the reviews. Hopefully this chapter won't kill too many of you. Gibbs' dialogue in this was written by a friend of mine.]

It was the pain that woke her up, strong enough to make her feel nauseous. Somehow, she'd ended up sleeping on her left side, putting pressure on her shoulder and on the still-healing bones in her chest. She sits on the edge of the bed, toes in the carpet, eyes closed, hoping just relieving the pressure will be enough to make the pain stop. She's been trying to avoid taking the Vicodin. It makes her feel out of control and stupid. But the pain might win.

She stands and decides to pace the bedroom before resorting to narcotics. She instinctively wants to put a hand on her chest as if that will make it stop. Everyone does it, grabbing bumps and scrapes, but it never actually helps. And in her case, it would make it worse. Under the skin, she can feel the top two wires holding her breastbone together. That thought by itself upsets her stomach. She'll have them for the rest of her life, however long or short it may be.

As she starts back toward the other side of the bedroom, she looks at Gibbs, still sleeping. Or doing a damn good job at pretending to be asleep. After what she said last night, she was certain he'd wake up every hour just to make sure she was still breathing.

_"I don't know, Jethro. Maybe I needed closure. Maybe I needed to see for myself instead of through CNN three thousand damn miles away."_

_"Then you should have waited for me. You could have been hurt or worse. Is that what you want, Jen?"_

_"Would that __**really**__ be so bad?"_

_He freezes. "Yes, it would, Jen. Do you want to die?"_

_"I've thought about it, Jethro."_

_"How seriously?"_

_"Somehow, I still have too much pride to hurt myself...but beyond that?"_

_Silence_

_"I need you to talk to me, Jethro."_

_"Why the hell didn't you talk to me, Jen?"_

_"Because I thought I could handle this." She closes her eyes for a moment, then opens them again. And when she continues, her voice is icy. "But clearly I __**can't**__. I can't do anything anymore. Is that what you wanted to hear?"_

_"Yes! If I was recovering from the injuries you got and told you I felt like that, you'd be riding my ass all over the Beltway."_

_"In case you've forgotten-" And she cuts herself off before she calls him "Agent Gibbs". The realization leaves her looking broken._

But she realizes that something he said, or something she said, or something they said together made everything change for her. If she wants to feel like herself again, she has to take control of her life in any way she can, however she can. She stops walking near the foot of the bed and watches Gibbs. She's in a strange place emotionally. As she plays through the conversation-or was it an argument?-she's able to pin down the moment when it clicked for her. And that's the best way to describe it, a click; everything fell into place. And it hurts her as much as the pain that woke her up.

_"We're going to get through this, Jen. Together, we're stubborn enough to get through anything."_

_"Tell me why it matters."_

_He looked down at her, scraping up every bit of French he knew, "Je t'aime pour toujours."_

He can't be part of her life.

She has to put her life back together, as close to how it used to be as possible, and she has to do it alone. She can't drag him down with her. She won't. She bites the inside of her lip as she's hit with a strange feeling of deja vu. It's sickly amusing how this is what she was trying to do in the diner, except for different reasons. Her motivations were simple then: save him from her mistakes; save herself from misery. It almost worked out. Until it didn't and left a bigger mess than when they started.

Now, if she leaves, she can fall apart quietly and he'll be spared the agony of having to watch. She'll be able to go about her days like nothing is wrong and she'll be the only one who sees when her expectations aren't met. He's resilient; he'll move on.

Jen starts walking her short path again, noticing that her physical pain has lessened. Now she can manage it with Tylenol. She disappears into the bathroom and closes the door quietly behind her before putting on the light. She throws back the few pills she thinks will do the trick, but lingers in the bathroom. A few weeks ago, she was standing here, stunned by what she saw in the mirror. At four in the morning, she can smile slightly. She still looks terrible, but she cuts herself some slack and chalks it up to having actually been asleep. Deep down, she feels the stirrings of her old self starting to come back. It helps that her incisions have all mostly healed and she's starting to feel human again. No longer the Bride of Frankenstein.

She's starting to feel like a human woman again.

She puts the light out and emerges into the bedroom with her chin a little higher than it's been in weeks. And she doesn't go back to pacing and she doesn't go back to bed. At least not to sleep. She crawls into bed and slides over to Gibbs. He is definitely asleep, which kind of amazes her, but it works in her devious favor.

She hasn't decided when she's going to leave, but she's made up her mind that she is. Sitting there for a moment, she watches him, laying on his back, and she's thinking about how perfect this moment is. Until she decides the time is right, she's going to make the most of the time that's left with him. Her lover. She's not even sure that's official. She smiles and pulls the immobilizer from her arm. She can almost hear Ducky throwing a fit, but she doesn't care. She wants her hand free for just a few minutes. This is too important.

She turns and straddles his hips and as she moves, she thinks she's even recovered some of the grace she thought she'd lost. The sudden pressure wakes Gibbs and for a moment, he looks up at her, confused as hell.

A slow smile spreads across her lips. "Did I wake you?" she asks, teasing. She puts both hands on his chest and spreads her fingers to cover as much of his skin as possible. She doesn't wait for an answer, and peels off her t-shirt, "I need you."


	9. Chapter 9

[A/N: I don't want to call this the final chapter, so I'll say it's the end of Part One. Don't fear, dear readers, there is more to come. I just don't know what it is now, since I will be co-writing with my Gibbs person. And as always, thanks for the reviews.]

**She got out of town  
>On a railway New York bound<br>Took all except my name  
>Another alien on Broadway<strong>

_Dear Jethro,_

_It'll be late by the time you get this and I'll be hundreds of miles away. And I promise you, I'm okay. But I know you'll worry anyway. Please don't. i know you'll be angry with me, too. You have every right to be. I've done this to you twice now. There's no point in apologizing because you won't accept it, but I am sorry it has to be this way. This is the only way I can even begin to survive._

It's early Wednesday morning, a week after she reached that marker on her path to healing, and Jen lounges drowsily under the blankets of Gibbs' bed. He's readying for what he thinks is a normal day. She's cataloging and memorizing and remembering every detail. She read the studies on memory loss with ALS and she doesn't want to forget even a second of this. This-these past seven mornings-have been some of the best moments of her life. And there's very little she would change about them.

**There's some things in this world  
>You just can't change<br>Some things you can't see  
>Until it gets too late<strong>

_I caught a train to New York. I need to start my life over again-to be me again-for however long I have. I don't expect you to follow me. In fact, I expect this to be the final chapter for you and me. I know I wouldn't take me back a third time. And I wish I could make you understand, Jethro, but you, better than anyone, know that there are some things you just have to do because your gut tells you so._

Every so often, he gets distracted and stops in his routine to just look at her as she lays there. She's trying to stay awake until he leaves, but she's in and out. But she catches him watching her. She doesn't say anything, just smiles at him. He's looking at her the same way he did when they were in Paris together, like this is the first time he's realizing he loves her. He doesn't say anything either, just returns her smile and goes back to his routine. She's stored up enough of those memories to keep her going for a few years. That's all she needs, a few years worth.

When he finishes, he comes over to stand against the side of the bed. She pulls her arm from over her head and holds her hand out to him. She doesn't want the moment to end, but it has to. He laces their fingers together and bends down to kiss her. It has so much more value for her than it does for him at the moment. Tonight, it'll have a different tone to it. He says he'll see her later and she says she loves him.

**Baby, baby, baby  
>When all your love is gone<br>Who will save me  
>From all I'm up against out in this world<br>and Maybe, maybe, maybe  
>You'll find something<br>That's enough to keep you  
>But if the bright lights don't receive you<br>You should turn yourself around  
>And come on home<strong>

_I want to spare you, Jethro, having to sit by and watch as I fall down stairs and trip over curbs. I want to save you from having to watch me fall apart and I don't care if you'd do it over and over again. It's about my dignity and how, by the end, I won't have any. I don't want you to remember me like that. I want you to remember me as I was this morning, when my entire world was you and your sawdust and your home._

After he leaves, she takes her time getting out of bed. There's no hurry; she has all day. She starts her day with coffee like she would any other day. But that's all that's the same. As she digs a small carry-on bag out of the bedroom closet, she notices her heart hurts, but it's not anything she can take a pill for. It's in her mind as much as it is her heart. Jen puts the bag on the bed and stares at it for a moment, biting her lower lip. Just because it's her decision to leave doesn't mean she has to like it. And it doesn't mean she can't cry.

She grabs the button down shirt that's given her so much trouble and the sweatpants with NIS down the leg. He won't miss them, but she's certain she will. She's wearing the jeans he bought for her and the shirt that has snaps down the front. Tears start to well in her eyes as she smiles slightly, thinking about how she didn't even have to ask him to buy things for her.

With a swipe at her eyes, she grabs the few other things she's accumulated-toothbrush, hairbrush, the important things-and packs them in the bag. She feels like she's moving through a void, sucking all the sound and all the air from the room. She draws in a breath and looks around the space that they shared for over a month. But as she stands there, she's convinced this is what needs to happen. She's drowning here.

**I got a hole in me now  
>Yeah, I got a scar I can talk about<br>She keeps a picture of me  
>In her apartment in the city<br>Some things in this world  
>Man, they don't make sense<br>Some things you don't need  
>Until they leave you<br>then they're things that you miss, you say**

_There won't be a day that goes by where I don't think about you. And I hope, with time, you'll be able to forgive me for this. I'll understand if you can't. By now, you're too angry for any of this to make sense to you. But for what it's worth, Jethro, it's because of you I'm still breathing despite knowing what's in store for me. We're survivors and just as I'm starting over, so will you._

With her bag packed, Jen sits down at the kitchen table with pen and paper, hoping her fingers work well enough to get her through the letter. The tears won't stop as she works through her feelings on paper. They blur her vision and she has to stop again and again to swipe at her eyes with the heel of her hand. How can something feel like the right thing and the wrong thing both together?

**Let that city take you in  
>Let that city spit you out<br>Let that city take you down  
>For God's sake turn around<strong>

_All that's left to say is this: Je t'aimerai jusqu'à ce que le jour où je mourrai._

_-Jenny_

She signs the letter simly enough and stands it up against the coffee pot. It's the first place he'll look when he realizes she's not there. She pulls up the handle on the little rolling bag and with her heart in her throat and her stomach in knots, she starts the trip to Penn Station.


End file.
